Embers
by FFcrazy15
Summary: Old embers are the hottest part of the fire. When Effie and Haymitch are found to be rebels, they and twenty-two others are thrown into the third Quell. Catching Fire rewritten.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

_**A/N: As most of you hard-core Hayffie fans know, another story along the same lines has been written, entitled May the Odds be Ever in Your Favor, by Innocentlily. That's because this was inspired by said AMAZING story! Dedicated to you, Innocentlily!**_

**Katniss**

Something is wrong.

I know it is. There should be a little boy. There should be a box. There should be a little scroll of paper, and there should be someone shouting angrily that this isn't fair, before he's shot.

Only there isn't.

Everything about the last year has been wrong: the Victory Tour was cancelled, we haven't seen anybody from the Capitol, and for whatever reason, the entirety of Panem seems to be holding its breath. Communication with any of the other districts has been totally shut down, and even the trains are running off-schedule, according to the miners.

The reaping for the third Quarter Quell will be in a week or so, and then I'll be hauled off to the Capitol with either Peeta or Haymitch (wherever the drunk is- he probably forgot the date, and is hung over at a bar) to mentor some poor girl who'll know just as well as I do that she won't make it through day two.

I suddenly get a glimpse of why Haymitch is so eager to have his bottle.

But the little boy isn't here. The box isn't here. The scroll of paper isn't here, and everyone's waiting for something to happen.

_ We've been standing here for ten minutes,_ I think, switching my feet for the millionth time. _Let's get a move on, please._

As if summoned by my command, the big screens in the square suddenly flicker to life. "Greetings," says President Snow. I do my best to keep my face from twisting into a snarl. "As you all have all guessed, something is very different about this year's Quarter Quell.

"It seems that when the Quell instructions were being written, the scroll for the third Quell was mysteriously, ah, _forgotten,_" he says, with a small, lying smile. I feel my hands curl into fists. "Therefore we have taken this wonderful opportunity to punish some of the known rebels from each of the districts."

_Rebels?_ I think. Quickly, I scan the area for Gale, who is the only person I know who'd likely join a rebel cause. To my relief, he's standing just a ways away.

Snow steps away from the Camera, revealing the steps of the Capitol Building. There are figures, twenty-four of them, lined up on the steps with sacks on their heads and their arms tied behind their backs. Each has a Peacekeeper standing behind him. All are dressed in men's clothing, which surprises me until President Snow says, "District 1: Sylvia and Olan Erickson."

The bags are torn off, revealing a couple of roughly twenty-five years each. The look at each other for a moment, and then back ahead, chins stiff.

"District 2: Diamond Rafor and Mason Obern."

He goes down the list and occasionally I recognize one or two: Finnick O'Dair and Annie Cresta, both victors from 4; Peony the overly-hyper escort of District 7, who now appears close to tears; and Seeder and Chaff, both older victors from 11.

When they say Chaff's name, my heart aches just a little. He's Haymitch's old drinking buddy; my mentor is going to be downing the whiskey tonight.

"Here we go," Peeta mutters from a few people away. I know that it's meant for me, because the last two people left will be our poor tributes, who if they're anything like the majority of people in 12, don't stand a chance.

"District 12: Haymitch Abernathy-"

My eyes snap wide as Haymitch's bag is ripped off. _No,_ my brain thinks numbly. _No. No way._

"-And, as she prefers to be called, _Private_ Calphurnia Trinket."

The sack is torn off the head of the last, revealing the escort I know all too well. I barely get a glimpse of her angry face (reminiscent of the time I stabbed her precious mahogany), before my head hits the ground and everything snaps to black.

Just before I'm completely out, I hear (or think I hear, anyway) President snow say, "Happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."


	2. Chapter 2 The Parade

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

**Katniss**

The rocking of the train is what awakens me first. I blearily sit up, rubbing my eyes.

"Good, you're up," Peeta says. I see that he's sitting on the other end of the couch.

"What happened?" I mutter.

"You passed out." He hands me a cup of something- hot chocolate, I think- and continues. "Drink that, you'll feel better. Anyway, we need to talk."

"No kidding," I groan, taking a drink from the cup. I wipe my mouth and say, "Damn."

"That's a good word for the situation," he agrees.

"They can't go in there, Peeta," I say.

"Katniss," he says in a warning tone.

"They can't. They'll die."

"Katniss!" He looks meaningfully up into the corner of the room. Right, the cameras. They're recording everything we're saying.

I take another long drink of hot chocolate, trying to figure out how to word my next sentence. "She can't fight," I say finally. "Haymitch is smart, he can keep himself alive. She'll be dead in thirty seconds."

"She's smarter than she looks," Peeta says, giving me a knowing look. _Of course_; if she's been a rebel all this time, then the ditz act was really just that- an act.

"Yeah, but can she throw a knife?" I counter. "Can she shoot? Can she-"

"'Frost' herself and hide?" Peeta says. "Probably none of those things. But there's got to be _something _she can do."

I let out a humorless chuckle. "Like painting their nails until they die of boredom?"

"Point taken." He thinks for a moment. "She'll need an alliance then; so will Haymitch. Since he's friends with Chaff, that might be a good setup, the three of them."

"Her and Haymitch in an alliance?" I snort. "Peeta, you can have as many Chaffs in there as you want, but it won't stop them from murdering each other the moment they get into an argument. And I mean that literally."

"Okay, so we're putting Effie on hold," Peeta says. "What about Haymitch? What's his strategy."

I think. "You said he and Chaff would do well in an alliance. Problem is, they'll both be going through withdrawal in the arena."

"True. So we need another sober person in there?"

"Exactly. One they both trust." I think back to the tributes. "What about that one woman, the one from Chaff's district? Seeder, right? She seems pretty stable."

"She's not an addict, drunk, or off the deep end, from what I can tell," Peeta agrees. "So Seeder, Haymitch, Chaff, and Effie."

It already sounds explosive.

I must've been out longer than I thought, because within an hour or so we're pulling into the Capitol. Either that, or the trains have been going twice as fast- which, as it turns out, is a good probability.

When we get to the penthouse, we're escorted upstairs, guards on either side. The entire situation is extremely tense, as if one word could cause a shoot-out. Which it could.

The Peacekeeper in front of us opens the door in as we step off the elevator. I barely have the time to step in before I'm practically tackled by a blur of brown and blonde.

"Katniss, dear, haven't I told you to put your hair up? Not that your braid isn't fashionable of course, it's all the rage this year-"

"Effie," I mumble. "You're strangling me."

She pulls away, breathless. Unlike the Effie I've always known, she's dressed in the same simple clothes she was during the 'reaping' and her face is free of makeup. Her wig is missing, revealing wavy blonde hair that she's tied back. She acts just like she always has, giving no acknowledgement to the fact that we all know she's a rebel.

"Good to see you, Katniss," Haymitch says, lifting his glass of liquor towards me. "And you, Peeta."

Something in me bubbles over, and before he can stop me, I've snatched the glass out of his hands.

He stares at me, surprised. "Got a problem, Sweetheart?"

"No liquor," I say angrily. "Not until you come out of that arena, which you're going to do!"

"Yeah, good luck with that," he says, rolling his eyes.

"Don't talk like that," Peeta says sharply.

"Dammit, kid, use your head!" Haymitch snaps. "Twenty-four of us are going in, and if we're _lucky_ one will come out! And to be quite blunt, the odds aren't 'in our favor,'" he says, mimicking Effie's accent.

"He's right," said escort says, her tone going a little hopeless. That infuriates me even more.

"No, he's not!" I walk past them and pour the glass down the drain. Haymitch rolls his eyes.

"You know there's more in the fridge, right, Princess?"

"Not after tonight there won't be. You're going to be sober." I put the glass down on the counter. "And the two of you are going to survive, you got that?"

"Hm, now let me see," Haymitch drawls. "Twenty-four minus twenty-two equals… two. And they're only going to let one of us back out. Give me a break, honey."

I ignore this. "Where's Cinna?"

"Preparing for the parade," Effie answers. "Portia told me we're all supposed to be down there in fifteen minutes."

"All of us?" Peeta asks. "Why?"

"He wants you there to discuss strategy."

"What do clothes have to do with-" I start, but Haymitch interrupts.

"We don't know. He didn't say much, only to make sure the two of you were there."

"Alright," Peeta agrees. I nod my assent. I want to see the stylist, anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, we're all heading down to the transformation area. Cinna is waiting for us in the little sitting room.

"So what's this about?" I ask.

Cinna glances around, and then says to Flavius, "Have the pests been taken care of?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He turns back to us, and the prep teams leave. "Sorry about that; we found spy-cams in the room earlier. Wanted to make sure there weren't more.

"Now." He sits down on the edge of one of the chairs, and the four of us do the same. "The rest of the stylists are in a panic," he tells us. "Nothing like this has ever happened before. I believe they're going to do what they've always done- you know, the trees, the wheat, etcetera."

"And we're not?" I ask. "No fire this time?"

"Not exactly. Everyone already knows that the two of you are rebels," he says, addressing Haymitch and Effie. "We're going to use that."

Haymitch starts at this. "Cinna, no offense, but that's the _stupidest_ idea I've ever heard," he says bluntly. "The people aren't going to want to be reminded we want to ruin their precious Capitol."

"Especially not from one of their own," Effie comments.

"You'd be surprised," Cinna counters seriously. "The people here in the Capitol are losing patience. The Districts aren't the only ones on the cusp of rebellion."

"They aren't?" I say, surprised. "Why?"

He looks at me, as if trying to figure out the right way to say it. "The Capitol isn't the fluffy land of joy it likes to portray," he says finally, his tone dark. "Almost all freedom here is gone. Everyone is monitored on everything, and the people are tired of having to pretend to go along. Any sponsor who's frustrated with what's going on is going to support an open rebel in these Games, even if it means their lives. They want to be heroes. And they're tired of dancing around the law."

"So what are we going to do?" Haymitch asks.

Cinna gives a little smile. "Effie, you've read Julius Caesar, haven't you?"

She blinks. "Of course. Every citizen in the Capitol has. I'm named after the Empress."

"And myself a conspirator. A conspirator," he says, reaching forward towards a manila folder on the table, "Against the Emperor. A rebel, so to speak. And that is exactly what we're going to play off of."

He pulls out two sheets of paper, showing them to us. I blink, surprised. He's still going somewhat off the fire theme, but this time it's different. The costumes themselves are white, flowing outfits, with red jewelry.

"A toga and a chiton," Cinna says. "Accented with coal-styled jewelry and crowns." He shows us two more pictures, and I see close-ups of the small tiara, bracelet and necklace set for Effie, and a larger crown and broach (presumably for the shoulder) for Haymitch, as well as a steel dagger. Aside from the weapon, the accessories all seem to be made from live coals.

"Why coals?" I ask, looking up at Cinna. "Why not fire?"

"Portia, Marcus Brutus' wife in the play, was trapped in Rome, which was under the control of Marc Anthony and Octavius Caesar. Marcus Brutus was on the run with the other Conspirators. Most historians believe that when she heard Brutus had died- which was false, at the time- she committed suicide by swallowing hot coals. Marcus Brutus died shortly after, in battle against Anthony and Octavius."

"So we're portraying dead people," Haymitch says dryly.

"You're portraying rebels. Some may not recognize it, but every learned person in the Capitol- especially those named for people in the play- will recognize the significance of the coals and the dagger."

"This is dangerous," Peeta says. It isn't a question.

"Extremely. But, with all due respect…" He shrugs, looking at Haymitch and Effie. "There's nothing more they can do to punish the two of you."

"What about you?" I ask. "Can't they punish you?"

He gives me a wry smile. "Like I said, Katniss: the Districts aren't the only ones with an agenda against the government. I think my namesake would've been proud."

"Alright," Peeta says, standing up. "Do what you have to do. We'll see you two," he tells Effie and Haymitch, "Before the parade."

"Alright," Effie agrees. She looks over at Haymitch and lets out a little laugh.

"What?" he says defensively.

"You're going to be an interesting case for the prep team," she chuckles. Peeta tries to hide a grin.

"And you won't?" he retorts.

She smiles daintily. "I _am_ a prep team." And with that, she stands up and goes into her transformation room. It suddenly hits me how little of her they'll have to transform, versus Haymitch… _Oh, so _that's_ what's so funny._ I realize.

I stand up quickly, desperate to get out of the room before Haymitch can see me smile. It doesn't work, and his face darkens. "It's that not funny!"

"Oh, but Haymitch," Effie calls from her room, as the door closes, "It really, truly is!"

**HG**

Peeta and I walk towards the chariots, my mind running a thousand miles an hour.

This is the most dangerous political statement any of us has ever made. This even tops the nightlock.

Effie and Haymitch are already in their chariot. I glance over Effie- she looks much the same as usual, aside from her outfit- and then look at Haymitch.

"Not bad," I say approvingly.

He grunts. "Not bad? Sweetheart, I can't feel my legs. Damn prep team…"

"Suffer for beauty, Haymitch," Peeta says, mimicking Effie. The escort sends him a little smile.

"We're starting," Cinna tells me, coming up behind me. He's right; as I watch, the chariots slowly start to exit through the doors as the music blasts out.

Soon enough, it's our chariot's turn, and the horses begin to pull our chariot's out. They're just about to pick up speed before I remember something.

"Wait!" I say, running up beside it and hurrying to keep pace. "Dead silence, understand? Like you can't see the crowd at all."

"No problem," Haymitch grunts, though Effie looks scandalized.

The chariot exits through the huge doors, and they close. Cinna points to a screen on the wall. "Watch," he tells us.

The chariot parade has begun. The people cheer for the others, but when they see ours, a hush falls over the crowd. I swallow the anxiety building in my stomach.

"Cinna," I say quietly, as I see little handheld touchscreens appear, one by one, but then quicker in the crowds. "Is there any way you can check how many searches go on a topic?"

"On it." There's a pause, before I hear him suck in a breath.

"How many?" Peeta says.

"On 'Portia,' 'Brutus,' and 'Coals' alone… you don't want to know."

"We're screwed," I conclude.

"Maybe," Cinna says. I've never seen him this tense.

The chariots stop at the mansion, and President Snow appears on the balcony.

He looks over the two-dozen rebels coolly, and I can tell whatever he's about to say won't be any form of congratulations. His eyes land, finally, on our tribute's chariot. Haymtich stares back defiantly, Effie calmly, as if he would be discussing a lunch menu. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as he recognizes the symbolism behind the costumes. Finally, he says, "Twenty-four will go in, one will come out. This is how it has been for seventy-five years, and how it will be for hundreds more. Isn't that the very essence of humanity: to survive?

"Be reminded, dear friends, that this is the common goal of Panem: not only to survive, but to thrive. Anyone who endangers that thriving life endangers the lives of all. Let us also be reminded of what the Hunger Games stand for: a chance to redeem our nation from the terrors it went through all those years ago, and to prevent it from happening again. Anyone who stands against this life-giving tradition stands against the Capitol. May the odds be ever in your favor." He turns, and, with that, heads back into the mansion.

Slowly, the chariots begin to return back. Ours, of course, is the last to come in.

"Great job," I say, helping Effie out of the chariot. I hold out my hand to do the same for Haymitch.

He takes a long look at it, as if considering it, and then slumps to the ground.

I pinch the bridge of my nose with a sigh as people swarm him, trying to help him back up.

"Are you sure you want him sober?" Peeta mutters in my ear. "Withdrawal's going to be hell for all of us."

"Better than this," I say grimly. I look over at the passed-out victor on the ground. "Better than this."


	3. Chapter 3 Training

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

"_**Think you I am no stronger than my sex, being so father'd and so husbanded?"-**__ Portia, Julius Caesar (__http :/www. enotes. com/shakespeare-quotes /think-you-am-no-stronger-than-my-sex __)_

**Effie**

The moment my eyes open, I know I'm not at home.

Obviously, I'm in the penthouse… but when I sit up, I notice a simple, black outfit, clearly meant for comfort and agility, not style.

_Right, of course: I'm the tribute this year,_ I remember bemusedly, vaguely wondering why I'm not afraid. _Hm, must be shock. Well, it'll hit me in about an hour; enjoy the lack of feeling while I can, shall I?_

I take a shower, don the black clothes and head out into the hallway. I can hear noise coming from the dining room- no doubt Katniss and Peeta are already up. A glance down the hall tells me this is true, but I see no sign of Haymitch.

I frown, putting my hands on my hips. No, no, and no: he won't be doing this now. Not when it's him that's about to be thrown to the wolves. I reach over, open his door, and stride into his room.

The drunk is still asleep- or, more likely, passed out. I scowl, and then, seeing the glass of water next to his bed, let that frown turn upside down. This is going to be interesting.

I cross the room quietly and pick up the water. It's not cold anymore, but it'll still do nicely. Trying not to grin too wide (it wouldn't do to seem smug, after all), I dump the entire glass on his face.

The reaction is instantaneous. Haymitch snaps up in bed, coughing and spluttering. His knife is waving all over the place, seeking a target, so I simply get out of the way and wait for him to stop attacking.

He finally spots me by the door, calmly holding the cup of water, and bellows, "CALPHURNIA ELIZABETH TRINKET! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR?"

"Get up, you lazy buffoon." I toss him the cup and, just for good measure, say in my most annoyingly chipper voice, "It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

He groans and flumps back down against the cushions as I exit the room.

I walk out into the kitchen. Katniss looks up at me. "So. What was all that about?"

"Oh, just waking Haymitch up," I say nonchalantly, as the soaking wet drunkard stumbles out of his room behind me.

Peeta practically chokes on his food as he tries to hold back his laughter. Katniss has already lost the fight and is chortling as he sits down at the table, glaring at me. I smile sweetly and pass him a roll.

"So," Katniss says, once she has control over herself. "You two have training today. Do either of you have any strong suits?"

"You mean other than my dashing good looks?" Haymitch grunts, taking a drink of hot chocolate.

"Other than that," Peeta amends.

"Effie can shoot," Haymitch says, surprising me. "She's an expert with a handgun, and she's good at hand-to-hand combat."

"Really?" Peeta says with surprise, looking at me with admiration. I shrug.

"Chances are they aren't going to put a handgun in the arena, so I don't see the difference. Haymitch is good with a knife, axe, blunt object... and force fields, obviously."

He shoots me a warning look, but Katniss and Peeta frown, confused. I note their surprise. "Oh. I'm sorry, didn't- I thought you two knew."

"Knew what?" Katniss says.

"Never mind," Haymitch mutters, but I ignore him.

"Haymitch won the second quell using the arena force field," I inform them. It's harmless information from what I can tell- I haven't said anything wrong. Unfortunately, I've forgotten about Peeta's powers of observation.

"The Capitol couldn't have taken that well," he says.

"They didn't," Haymitch answers shortly. "And we're leaving it at that."

"What do you-" Katniss starts.

"I said, we're leaving it at that!" he snaps angrily. Awkward silence fills the table, before he slams his mug down, stands up, and walks out.

I silently follow him into the hall. We stand there for a long moment, before I say, "Haymitch, I'm sorry-"

"Don't be." His back his to me, but I can see his fists are clenched and his head bowed. His breathing is fast, too fast to be normal. "It ain't your fault."

"I thought they already knew."

"Yeah, well, they didn't." He takes a shuddering breath and I wonder if he's trying not to cry. "Let's just- not mention it. Okay?"

"Haymitch? What's going on?"

I look over my shoulder, to see Katniss and Peeta standing there. "Kids, not now," I say gently.

"No, let 'em hear," Haymitch says. He takes another long, deep breath, and then turns around. His eyes aren't wet, but they are red, as if he is- or was- very close to tears. Slowly, he leans against the wall.

"Look," he says finally. "I pulled a stunt in the arena last time, and… and they took it out on my family. My brother, my ma, my girl…" He clenches his fists again, and then continues, this time calmer. "It's- it's not a good idea to talk about it, see. Cameras, you know." He jerks his head up towards the one in the corner of the hallway.

We all know that's not the real reason, but we agree not to say anything more on the subject.

"So," Peeta says. "We want the two of you to do the same thing in training today as we did last year: don't show off, and remain inconspicuous."

"Peeta, we know everyone there," I say. "They already know I'm a good shot, and Haymitch's abilities are practically legend."

"In that case," Katniss says, "Don't bother trying to hide your skills. We also want you two to form an alliance with the District 11 tributes."

"Chaff and Seeder," Haymitch says.

"Exactly. Chaff seems like a fighter, even with his bad arm, and Seeder's always calm. That's a rare skill in the arena." Katniss bites her lip and gets that 'thinking' frown on her face, one Haymitch has often a time muttered to me he wished she'd put on more often.

"You're due down there in about half an hour," Peeta notes. "But you'll want to be early after what happened last year."

"Don't bother," Haymitch says. "I'm guessing some won't even show, seeing as they're not all the 'fighter' types."

"And we are?" I ask.

He raises an eyebrow. "You knocked the bottle out of Chaff's hands during the Games last year because he said he didn't like your shoes."

I huff. "They. Were. _Designer!_"

"Anyway!" Katniss interrupts. "We'll be watching through the screens in the viewing room. Don't do anything stupid," she tells Haymitch, "And don't get emotional," to me.

"We'll be fine, Sweetheart," Haymitch says, rolling his eyes.

None of us say much after that, mainly because we know what Haymitch told her was a big, fat lie: no, we won't be 'fine.' And we all know it.

After twenty minutes or so of agonizing waiting, we head down to the elevator, Haymitch and I. We don't say anything to each other, or at least not until the elevator door is closed.

As soon as it is, he lets out a long, slow breath. "You ready?" he says, not looking at me.

"What do you think?"

"I think you're scared as hell," he answers.

This irritates me; that he thinks so little of me, even though he's right. "Why do you say that?" I ask sharply.

He glances at me; gives a bitter, sidelong smirk. "Because I know I am."

The elevator dings open, revealing the training rooms, filled with obstacle courses, weapons, and survival stations.

Somebody pins a number 12 to my back, and a tall, dark-haired woman I recognize from other games as the Head Trainer calls us to form a circle. Her name is, I believe, Atala Urudian. She's thirty-seven and was in the same year as me in high school. She always used to beat me at the long jump, but I got her back in National History because I always had the top scores. Her parents were friends of mine, but they didn't come over much because they lived in another part of the city.

We all come into a circle, and she explains the training schedule to us. "There will be an expert at each of the different stations," she says. "You may go from station to station as you wish, or as your mentor tells you. Some stations teach how to survive in multiple environments; others using weapons; and still others help you practice in crossing extreme terrains, such as the rope or obstacle courses. You cannot train combatively with another tribute, _except-_ and this is new this year- for with their written consent, and no extreme injuring will be permitted. Forms will be at those stations. Any possibly fatal forms of combat will result in the forfeit of that tribute's place in the games and their execution." She gestures behind her. "You may begin."

We walk forward with the other tributes, glancing around. I try to figure out which station to go to first. "Why don't we learn how to build fires?" I suggest.

He grunts. "Already know how."

"Well, I don't."

"Then go. I'll meet up with you later." He walks over to the javelin throwing area, and I tentatively make my way to the fire building station.

I spend about twenty minutes or so learning how, which is more than I can say for the others. Most of them are focusing on weapons.

I realize something important: the Gamemakers are, of course, watching this and taking notes. If they think that most of us are learning how to use a weapon, then they'll likely make the terrain difficult. I feel a swell of pride in realizing my newfound skill may come in handy more than I thought.

As I look around for a new skill to master, Haymitch walks up to me. "How about some hand-to-hand?" he suggests, chuckling.

I glance at him, unimpressed by the poor innuendo. "Fine." Open-handed fighting is my strong suit, anyway, aside from firearms.

_Oh, how I love being able to finally think that, _I muse. Poor Haymitch.

We walk over and both sign the forms, to the surprise of the station manager. "So," I say, as we step onto the pad. "Why do you think they allowed it this year?"

"To pick more of us off early," Haymitch grunts. "Hands up, Trinket."

I do, putting them into fighting stance. His is rather sloppy, and I chuckle to myself. You don't need to be strong to be a good fighter.

I wait for him to make the first move, and just like I suspected he would, he does. He swings a haymaker around at me, which I block with ease before hitting him in the jaw- not hard enough to break it, of course, but enough to make a satisfying CLUNK. He's going to have a bruise tomorrow.

He draws back, scowling and rubbing the knock. I smile sweetly. "You did say it was my best skill, you know," I call.

"Why do you think I wanted to train with you?" he retorts. "If I'm not going to fight the best, what's the point?"

My pride swells a little at that. _So he thinks I'm the best._

We continue the light sparring for a while, before we get into a real, more complicated fight. Within a few moments, he has me by the collar of my shirt.

"What's wrong, Trinket?" he says with a smug smirk. "Haven't got any way out?"

I give him a dazzling smile, and then hit him in the stomach, while simultaneously grabbing ahold of his left hand so he can't pull away. I twist it in and to the side, taking him to the ground in a prayer lock, before I drop to a knee and bring my fist down.

I stop just before it hits his neck, which was what I was aiming for. Slowly, I get back to my feet, and then offer him a hand up.

He doesn't take it, but instead stands up on his own. "Good work, Trinket," he says, moving his wrist as if to get a kink out of it. I must've twisted it pretty hard.

We turn around, about to go to another station, and come to realize everyone is staring at us. My cheeks go pink.

Slowly, everyone goes back to what they're doing, and we step off the mat. I'm just heading to go over a knot-tying class when I feel someone clap my shoulder. I turn around, surprise.

"Damn," Chaff says, laughing. He was the one who was patting my shoulder, with his good hand of course. "That was something, Trinket."

"Thank you," I say modestly. "I think Haymitch was a bit surprised."

"Aw, I doubt it. He knows you too well."

I glance around to make sure no one's watching, before I say quietly, "You must be worried."

"Worried? Why?" he says, shrugging.

I gesture to his arm. "Well, not to be rude… but they throw us in despite our condition, you know."

He laughs at that, a big guffaw that draws the attention of a few Gamemakers, before they go back to watching the other tributes. "Listen, Dahlin," he says. "If anything, I'm a _lucky _one. There's less of me to cut off, less of me to injure. So I'm at an advantage."

"But you can't handle a two-handed weapon," I point out. "Or tie a knot, or start a fire-"

"Don't need to be able to hold a weapon. I've got a built-in club, right here." He pats his wooden stump with a grin. Then, with his good hand, he points over to a station. "Well, well," he says, smiling. "That wasn't here in my day."

I glance over to wear he's pointing, and my eyes go a little wide. "No indeed," I say, surveying the firearms- everything from handguns to rifles- with a nod.

"Ain't that your specialty? 'Sides knocking the stuffing outta Abernathy."

I glance at him. "No, I'm saving that for later. I think I'll tie a few knots."

"A'right. Later, Dahlin." He turns in the direction of the javelin toss station.

I turn to go to the knots station, before I suddenly whirl around and grab his arm. He looks at me, surprised.

"Allies?" I ask.

He considers it for a moment, and then gives a short nod. "It'd be my pleasure, Miss Trinket." He leaves again, and I head over to the knots.

**Hamitch**

I see Chaff give Effie a short nod, and I know she's gotten Chaff to join our little girl-scout troop here. I watch the two of them walk away from each other, and I push down the fury rising in my throat.

Both are close friends of mine- sure, Eff annoys the living _hell_ outta me most days, but I've known her for ten years, since she was twenty-seven and I thirty. That ain't something you can just forget. As for Chaff, he's only two years older than me and was practically my mentor during my games, since both my escort and mentor were out on Morphling for nearly the entire time. I heard someone had to wake them both up when I won. I won't deny it, I'm not exactly what you'd call a gold-star mentor, but at the very least I'm awake until both my tributes die off.

If I'm gonna get outta these Games, both of them will have to die. And I'd cut my own throat before I let that happen. And even then, how do I choose between the only two people I've even come close to calling friends?

I throw the javelin at the dummy in anger, and give a bitter chuckle when it hits it right in the heart. "Good thing I won't have to choose," I mutter, "Because with any luck, I'll already be pushin' up daisies."

I don't let myself think about the possibility that Katniss and Peeta were forced into last year, and only just barely got out of- that in the end, it might come down to them and one of me. And if they give as much of a damn about me as I do them, we'll both go suicidal.

Ironic, isn't it?

Anyway, after a few more turns with the javelin, I look around to figure out where to go next. I see Effie at the knot-tying class, and I nod in approval. She's smarter than the others; surviving in the wild is the first part of making it through the Games. Everything else is secondary.

Since I already know how to build a fire, I walk over to her and kneel down beside. She's just finished setting a snare, which will be helpful in terms of food. "Good work," I say, and she starts a little.

"Oh, Haymitch, it's just you," she says with relief, seeing me. "You scared me."

I raise an eyebrow. "You know the tributes can't actually kill each other until we get into the arena, right?"

"Well, yes, that's true…"

I rub my pounding head, as if hoping it will help the withdrawal migraines. It doesn't. "Damn that girl," I say angrily, meaning Katniss.

"Withdrawal?" she guesses. I nod. "Why don't we get some water in you? That might help."

"We should be training, not sipping from Dixie cups," I answer shortly.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Haymitch," she says, standing up. "You aren't going to learn anything if you're suffering through it. Now come along."

We go get some water off a table provided. Drinking it doesn't do much, but at least it takes my mind off of things.

As we watch the others, I can see her grow more melancholy, her usual happy air (even now, being prepared for our deaths, she talks like everything is completely unicorns-and-rainbows) fading away into sadness.

"What?" I ask, low enough so the Gamemakers can't hear.

She bites her lip. "I won't kill them, Haymitch. I won't."

"What if they attack you?"

"Well, obviously I'll defend myself, but… not unless they go at me first, Haymitch. Not in a million years." She looks at me. "But that'll be boring, won't it?"

I nod, knowing what she means. "The people want a show. And if we don't give it to them…"

"What will they do?"

I grunt. "Same thing they always do when things get too quiet. Kill us off 'emselves. Mutts, natural disasters, that sort of thing."

"Terrific," she murmurs. "I cannot wait."

I chuckle a little under my breath. Effie can be sarcastic when she wants; and now that everyone knows we're rebels, she has been given free reign to. "No offense, Eff, but you know you're going to be their first kill target, don't you?" I tell her.

"Let them try," she answers grimly, her jaw gritted in determination.

I watch her with a tiny, amused smirk twitching the corner of my mouth as she takes another drink of water. She's completely unmasked, and unlike Peony (poor thing's examining her reflection in an sword blade; you can't help but wonder how that half-a-brain became a rebel), she doesn't seem to be having a mental breakdown at it. Her blond hair is tied back, and for once her entire face is free of makeup.

It's not like I've never seen her without her wig and stuff, mind- she only wears it when she's in public. But that's just me- considering I practically live with the woman for about a month each year, I'm one of the few people that's seen her when she doesn't look and smell like a damn lilac tree. It's gonna be one helluva time for her friends to try and recognize her once she's on-screen, though.

I catch her eyeing the firearms, and I say, "Are you going over there?"

"No," she answers. "Better to leave that for the private sessions, don't you agree?"

"Whatever you say, Sweetheart," I answer, shrugging. "So what're you going to do then? You know they'll be drunk by the time we come up- not that I blame them, per say."

"Well, I don't think shooting the food is exactly, erm, _advisable, _but I'll make sure to get their attention." She gives me a small, innocent smile, puts down her cup daintily as if it were china and not cheap paper, and goes over to an axe-throwing station. As I watch, she throws the axe and lodges it straight in one of the dummy's heads. I'm about to grin before I see that the Gamemakers saw none of it- they're focusing on Peony, who looks so vulnerable and in need of attention that there's no doubt in my mind what's going through their heads.

I feel my anger about to boil over, and I take a long, deep breath, exhaling through my nose. If there's anything I hate, anything I absolutely _detest,_ it's someone- man or woman- in power taking advantage of somebody helpless. "You give 'em hell, Eff," I growl, furious, before stalking over to the obstacle courses.


	4. Chapter 4 Private Sessions

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

"**Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds. (2.1.173)" –**_**Marcus Brutus, from Julias Caesar (**__**http: /www .shakespeare-online. com/quotes **__** )**_

**Haymitch**

I eat without really tasting the food, staring straight ahead. Each group of tributes is sitting at their own table, even the Careers. A casual onlooker could think it's because we just don't want to talk- hell, that's not unusual, when you're about to go into a private session- but we all know why. None of us want to look at each other, and since there are only twelve tables, we may as well sit with the person from our district. Or grouped with our district, anyway, like Eff.

I watch as they call Chaff, and then Seeder, leaving the two of us completely alone in the lunchroom.

"Say something," Eff says finally.

"Say what?"

"I don't know. Anything. I've been sitting here in silence for half an hour and I'm going out of my mind with boredom."

"Not fear?" I ask with a chuckle.

"Well, perhaps a bit of that," she admits, "But you know, the worst they can do is give me a bad score."

I look at her, confused. "The _worst_ they can do? Eff, don't you get how dangerous this is?"

She shrugs, apparently not worried. "The way I see it, I'm going to die anyway, and so what's the point in getting a number? Oh, don't worry," she says, seeing my face, "I'll do my best, of course, but… well, there isn't a point in worrying, is there?"

"How do you know you'll lose?" I challenge. "I mean, you're good with a gun, you can beat the shit outta me in open-hand, and-"

"And that isn't what matters in these Games, Haymitch. You know it's true." She sighs a little. "The others seem as reluctant as I am to kill each other, from what they've told me-"

"You've talked to them?"

"Of course," she says, surprised. "Why ever wouldn't I? After all, the more friends one has in the arena, the less of a chance they'll be anxious to go after you."

I have to give her points for this one; it's a good beginning strategy. Except that it'll blow up in her face in the arena.

"Anyway, Chaff pointed this out to me on the first day: if we're all too… hesitant… to kill each other off, the Gamemakers will have to do it themselves. Which means that hand-to-hand combat is going to be virtually useless." She gives me a little smile. That, somehow, makes me angry more than anything else she's said.

"Don't you smile like that!" I say furiously.

"Hm?"

"That! Right there! Why the hell have you got to be so- so damn _chipper,_ woman? You just said you're going to die, so what, that's some kind of joke to you?"

"No, of course not," she says, the smile falling from her face to be replaced by a hurt frown. "But Haymitch, you really must understand, I-"

"Haymitch Abernathy," the voice says through the speakers, cutting her off. I feel my gut twist tightly, my breath hitching a little.

She pats my shoulder. "Do your best, Haymitch," she says kindly, and I can't understand how the hell she's being so- so nonchalant about all this.

I stand up and walk towards the room, my feet feeling like lead. It's like I'm fifteen years old again, and I know the Gamemakers are gonna be drop-dead drunk and won't give a damn about what I'm going to do, not after forty-seven other tributes. As if I know what I'm gonna do, anyway. _What the hell did I do back then?_ I don't remember.

I open the doors and see that I'm right: the Gamemakers are all drunk; some are even passed out. Can't say I'd blame them normally- it's gotta be rough, knowing you're planning how to send a buncha kids to their deaths- but you'd think after last year, they'd realize they should pay more attention to 12.

I walk over to the axes, thinking how ironic it is that I'm about to use the very weapon I almost got my head taken off by last time. I pick up a smaller one and chuck it at the dummy, hitting it in the head.

I glance over my shoulder to see if they cared, but they haven't seen it. They're all to worried about their next glass. Suddenly, I realize how furious Katniss musta been last year at them, and how pissed off people must be on a general basis with me. The second half doesn't worry me much- I consider it my job in life to annoy as many capitol people as possible- but the first makes me angry. Very angry.

Still, I decide not to imitate Katniss' little demonstration last year, and I do the standard stuff. The least they can do is give me a bad number, like Eff said, so what the hell, right?

Five minutes later, I'm starting to reconsider my position, as I realize not one has looked at me since I came in. Oh, yeah: I'm pissed off.

Putting down the axe (which is now the last and largest of the group), I walk over and look up at the risers. None of them notice, none of them care.

The risers are high, almost too high, but I can still climb them. I grab ahold of the top, brace my foot against the base and pull myself over onto the first one.

The Gamemakers (finally!) look at me, surprised, but I don't care. All I can hear is the blood roaring in my ears; feel the fury rushing through my head. I walk over to the table and take a nice, chilled glass of wine out of the ice bucket. I smash the neck of it against the table (so it's more for show than use, but what the hell, right?) and raise it towards them, cocking my head with a bitter smirk. "Cheers, mates," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm, and I take a drink from the broken neck. Ah, the liquor tastes good.

Still, I can't have too much, or Katniss'll push me outta the penthouse window. I slam the bottle down on the table again, and then (again, for show) jump off the edge of the risers, rolling forward on my shoulder when I hit the ground. I come up on my feet and walk out unexcused.

Hey. Shoulda paid more attention. And gotten cheaper wine.

**Effie**

They call my name, and I stand up calmly. _This is it._

As I walk into the room and head over to the firearms, I notice that they're all talking amongst themselves. Whatever Haymitch did was either spectacular or positively awful. Or both.

Still, it's my turn now, and they will recognize me. I pick up a nice-looking handgun- a black semi-automatic that's already loaded- click off the safety, and fire three shots into the roof.

Every head whirls around to look at me. I nod, satisfied, and say, "Good afternoon, gentlemen."

"Good afternoon," a few mumble back.

After that, I have no trouble keeping their attention. They seem to have learned their lesson from Katniss last year: shooting devices can and will be dangerous if fired in one's direction.

I fix my attention on a dummy and fire five bullets into its heart. Each bullet makes the hole a little wider. The Gamemakers, many of whom I know, stare in shock. Apparently they didn't think Effie Trinket could shoot.

By the time I'm done, with any luck, they've decided having one or two firearms in the arena isn't a horrid idea.

"You can go," one of the Gamemakers says. I turn walk towards the door out, which is beside the gun targets. As I'm about to put the gun back on the rack, I hear one of them whisper, "How the hell did she learn how to shoot?"

"No kidding," another replies. "I always had her pegged for a ditzy spinster."

"She'll go down fast, though. Her kind always does."

Before I can stop myself, I whirl around and fire five consecutive rounds, directly at one of the javelin dummies' necks. The BANG echoes around the room just an instant before the rubber head hits the ground.

They slowly turn back to me. I flash them a brilliant smile, put the gun on the rack, and walk out.


	5. Chapter 5 Interviews

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

"**Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds, In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol." – **_**Calphurnia,**__**Julius Caesar (from **__**http :/www. shakespeare-online. com/quotes/juliusquotes .html**__** )**_

**Katniss**

As Effie walks into the room, Peeta and I both glance at each other with warning looks. Haymitch has refused to say a word to us until Effie returns, and now that she's here, I need to know _exactly_ what they did.

"So what happened?" Peeta says warily, as the door swings closed.

They glance at each other, and at the same time, say:

"I blew the head off a dummy."

"I drank their liquor."

We stare at them. "What?" I say slowly.

Effie makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. "I lost my head! Everything was going perfectly, and then- oh, I don't know, someone made a comment and I shot the head off one of the javelin dummies. It was horridly tasteless-"

"Aw, don't you even worry about that, Sweetheart," Haymitch says, and I'm scared to realize he actually sounds guilty. "They wouldn't pay any attention to what I was doing, so… I climbed up into the stands, broke one of their bottles and drank some of it."

"Haymitch!" I nearly shriek.

"Like you're to talk!" he shoots back.

"Take it easy, you two!" Peeta snaps. We both look at him, surprised. I've never heard Peeta snap at _anyone_ before.

"He's right," Effie sighs, sitting down on one of the couches. "What's done is done; there's nothing else we can do but wait."

So wait we do. I spend the next few hours pacing back and forth, drinking fizzy water from the fridge and trying to figure out how I'm going to get either of them any sponsors. Unlike last year, I doubt any show of temper is going to help: with me, it demonstrated spirit. With them, no doubt it'll be taken as another act of rebellion.

Nobody's hungry, so nobody eats any dinner. Cinna shows up about half an hour after Effie and Haymitch arrived, and when we tell him what happened, he simply nods resignedly and says, "We never know; they may have some of the top numbers if nobody else could do anything." But even he doesn't have much hope.

Eventually, we all make our way into the sitting room to watch the scores. I can tell Effie's holding her breath, and Haymitch is gripping at his knife, which he's taken out from under his pillow, likely for comfort's sake.

District 12 is last, of course, so we watch the other numbers first. Both from District 1 get sevens; Finnick O'Dair got a nine, Annie Cresta a six, and Chaff and Seeder both (to our surprise), tens. Then Haymitch's face comes on screen.

Twelve.

I let out a tiny gasp, stunned. Effie's score flashes up, and it's exactly the same.

Both of them got twelve. The highest score possible.

I jump up, an unintended cheer escaping my mouth, and hug the two of them quickly. "Twelve!" I yell. "That's incredible, that's-"

"The worst thing that could've happened," Haymitch growls, clicking off the screen.

"What do you mean?" I say, still practically bouncing from excitement and relief.

"We'll be obvious targets for anyone who actually wants to fight in that arena, Katniss," Effie says softly. "I'd rather have a one than a twelve, to be honest."

"The Gamemakers must really hate us," Haymitch says with a bitter, humorless laugh. "Or they really like cherry wine."

I slowly sit back down, my joy dissipating. Of course: this was an obvious set-up. The two of them will be like beacons in there for anyone whose desire to survive overrides their rebel loyalty.

"Well," Effie says, standing up. "I do believe I'll turn in for the night. Have a good evening." She stands up and walks out of the room, and it would've been a very convincing exit if her voice hadn't hitched on 'evening.'

We all sit in silence for a few minutes after she leaves, until Haymitch says, "Aw, damn." He gets up and follows her out. We hear a door open and close, and I don't think it's his.

Cinna, moral man that he is, refuses to come eavesdrop, but Peeta and I creep over into the hall to Effie's door and press our ears to it.

"-C'mon, Eff; where's that calm, resigned woman I saw earlier?"

Effie lets out a choked laugh. "I think she disappeared with her last chance of survival."

"You said you knew you were going to die."

"I know, I'm- Oh, I'm just being silly, I'm sorry…"

"You ain't being silly," he says gruffly. "Trust me, I'm about ready to jump out that window myself. Better than heading back in _there_ again."

"You have to win, Haymitch," I hear her say, trying to steady her voice. "They need you."

"You and I both know I'm not gonna win. Besides, you know _she's_ got plenty a' other people, Princess.

"Not _her_, silly,_ them_. The kids."

Peeta and I look at each other, stunned.

"Things are getting dangerous, Haymitch-"

"Eff," he says, tone warning. The cameras must be picking all of this up.

"Right, right… But you know it's going to happen, Haymitch. She's the domino. And when things start falling down-" I hear her start to cry again.

I hear a soft _whumph,_ probably Haymitch sitting down on the bed, before the sound of crying is muffled slightly. I move my head a little and see, to my absolute shock, that Haymitch is giving her an awkward hug.

They don't say anything for a long time, and then she pulls away. "You know, I just bet they're listening at the door." My eyes snap wide.

"Yeah, well-" I don't hear what he says next, because we're already hurrying into our rooms.

I hear the door open a few seconds later, and then footsteps as Haymitch walks to his own room and shuts the door. And I think how ironic it is that all four of us, five including Cinna, are sitting in five different rooms, none of us speaking to each other, but we're all thinking the exact same thing: _How long do we have before everything turns to hell?_

**HG**

I fiddle with the edge of my simple dress, pacing the hallway and waiting for the elevator to arrive with our tributes. "Where are they?" I demand from Peeta, as if I think he knows the answer. Which he doesn't, of course, but that's entirely beside the point.

"Calm down. I'm sure Cinna has it under control."

"What are they going to say?" I ask. The interviews are tonight, and if we're not careful, the entire thing could blow up in our faces. "What are they going to do? Caesar will do his best, but I didn't even get the chance to quiz Effie before the prep team dragged her off and-"

The elevator doors open, and I turn. What I see surprises even myself, a former tribute.

Cinna has continued the look he had from the night before, only now it's been slightly altered: the flowing white cloth turns brown and curled at the edges in what I can only describe as being burnt, like white paper. More burn spots appear throughout the cloth. Effie's outfit is more elaborate than Haymitch's, which is to be expected, and I see that in the center of her chest, right over her sternum, is a glass half-sphere. Inside are glowing embers. Haymitch has one like it holding the cloth on his shoulder.

It's a very simple design- or at least, I think so, until Effie steps forward. As she does, I see a disturbance run through the dress and her hair, stopping just as it reaches the crown of her head. The disturbance is little bits of glowing fire-colored lights- or, as anyone would describe them having seen them come from a true fire, sparks.

Haymitch's clothes do much the same as he moves, beckoning me with his hand. "Move it along, Sweetheart; we haven't got all day."

I snap out of it and hurriedly follow Peeta into the elevator.

When we arrive at the stage, the crowd is, at least in my opinion, even more terrifying than last year, because now it's split fifty-fifty: people who want to kill our tributes, and people who want to kill the Gamemakers and start a rebellion. Frankly, I'm not sure which is worse.

Thankfully, I'm not the one required to go onstage this year, so I take my place beside Peeta and Cinna in the front row of the audience.

The minutes tick by slowly, not from boredom, but from nervousness and fear. The other tributes do their best to go by what they've always seen a tribute do: play the part of sexy, mysterious, dangerous, etc. However, the Capitol must be anxious to get this over with, because both tributes do a group interview, lasting only five minutes. They seem to go, for the most part, alright- Caesar studiously avoids any mention of rebellion, and the tributes, known rebels themselves, follow his lead.

Then, the timer for 11 goes off, and it's our turn. _Please, Haymitch,_ I think desperately, _don't say anything stupid._

But as it turns out, Haymitch isn't the one I have to worry about.

"Hello again, Haymitch and Effie," Caesar says pleasantly.

"Good Evening," Effie replies, giving him a dazzling smile. She is playing the part she's always played: happy capitol citizen. And, though everyone in the audience knows she isn't, it still somehow works. "Isn't it just the loveliest evening?"

"No denying that," Caesar says with a nod. "How are you, Haymitch?"

"Pretty much the same as last time," the victor says with a shrug. "Handsome, smart, and completely sober."

The crowd laughs, and he grins. "Naw, I mean it. My mentors have gotten rid of every drop in the penthouse. You wouldn't _believe_ the lengths I've had to go to to get liquor."

"You're telling us!" one of the Gamemakers shouts from the stands, and all the others laugh. The crowd laughs, too, a little confused.

"Both of you look spectacular, may I say," Caesar compliments.

"Oh, it's entirely Cinna's design," Effie says. The cameras for the big screens focus in on Cinna, who gives a small smile. "It's lovely, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," Caesar agrees. "Now, is that dagger real, Haymitch?"

"Let me bring it into the arena and I'll show you," he replies, with a daredevil smile I didn't know he was capable of.

The crowd cheers, and so does Caesar. "Looks like he's still a fighter, ladies!" he says to the crowd, and there's a round of cheers. "You were a particularly popular victor, Haymitch."

"Oh, of course he was," Effie says. "The girls at my school went nuts after he won. I think my friend Sisina actually had a poster of him, if I remember right."

"Hey, what can I say?" Haymitch says, leaning back in his chair. "Good looks, brains, and a lot of liquor- what more could a capitol girl want?"

Again, more laughter. I even find myself grinning. His interview during the first quell must've been great.

"So, tell me about these clothes," Caesar says. "I love the ancient Greek style."

"Roman, actually," Effie says politely. "From the play, Julius Caesar."

"You don't say? So I guess that makes you Calphurnia and Haymitch- what? Caesar?" He grins, and the audience chuckles at the pun.

Effie waits for them to quiet down, and then says, "Not quite. You see, I'm supposed to be Portia, and Haymitch, Marcus Brutus."

"That makes sense," Caesar says nodding. "Is why you have the coal accents?"

"Precisely. You see, when Portia was in Rome and Brutus on the run, she heard false news that he had died, and swallowed hot coals to take her own life."

"That's commitment if I ever heard of it," Caesar agrees.

"Yes. You see, that's what dedication is," Effie says. A hush has fallen over the crowd as they hang on her every word. "When you love someone- or something- that much, you'll do anything for it. Even if it means your death."

There's a moment of stunned silence as the implications of her words begin to sink in, and then the buzzer goes off. "I guess we're out of time," Caesar says, standing up. "Thank you, everyone."

We all stand for the anthem, but then, something insane happens: Haymitch grips Effie's hand as the music starts to play, and she Chaff's, and he Seeder's. It goes down the line, until every tribute- no, every _rebel_ is holding hands in one long, unbroken chain of defiance.

And then suddenly, every person in line is alight. Their clothes turn from foliage and oceans to blazing, uncontrollable fire, and no one, not even the dimmest capitol citizen, can miss the symbolism behind it: while there may have been sparks, the true fire only came when the districts connected hands. It was planned. It was organized. It was Cinna's greatest masterpiece, and when I look at him, mouth open in shock, I see that he's staring straight ahead. Rebellion is burning in his eyes like it is in the face of every tribute, before the stage goes dark and all that can be seen are the flames.

**HG**

When the four of us get back to the penthouse, I close the door silently behind me, as if it can lock out everything that's going to happen. We all say nothing for a long, long time.

"I guess this is it," Peeta says finally, his tone hollow. And he's right: for at least one of our tributes, this is the last time we'll see each other.

Haymitch nods without a word. Effie takes a shuddering breath.

And then, suddenly, I'm running forward and embracing them both, trying my absolute hardest not to burst into tears.

"Hey, calm down, Sweetheart," Haymitch says gruffly. "C'mon, cryin's not gonna help."

"I know, I just-" I swallow, pulling away, unable to finish.

"We'll be watching," Peeta says, his voice thick with emotion. "At least one of us, at every moment."

"Thank you," Effie says, her words genuine. "Do- do either of you have any final advice for us?" Despite her careful way of stating it, we all hear the unspoken message: _any last words?_

Peeta and I glance at each other, and then say at the same time: "Stay alive." Everyone in the room smiles a little; it's almost a joke between us now.

Before any of us can really start crying, we quickly head off to our individual rooms. My mind is in a whirl, and I can't think of what to do next. _Take a shower,_ I order myself. _Yes, take a shower._

I open the door to the bathroom blindly, not even looking where I'm going. As I turn on the light, the door shuts behind me.

I turn back around, and scream.

It isn't a very loud scream, of course, because the moment after it escapes my mouth, Finnick O'Dair's hands are covering it. I struggle against him as he says, "Shut up! Shut up!"

Slowly, I do, and he pulls away. "Thank you," he says.

"What the _hell_ are you doing in my bathroom, Finnick O'Dair?" I demand furiously.

"Relax, Twelve," another voice says. I glance to my right and see Johanna Mason, the victor from 7 a few years previous and Peony's mentor. "We're not here to kill you. At least, not yet."

"Then why are you in my bathroom?" I say again, this time a little more calmly, though I'm still looking around for something to use as a weapon.

"We need your help," O'Dair says plainly. He hands me a small booklet. "Here's everything you need to know about the rebel cause and our plans for the next few weeks. Study it and give it back to my mentor, Mags, by tomorrow morning."

My head is spinning. "Do Haymitch and Effie-"

"No."

"Why?"

Finnick hesitates before answering. "Strange things happen to a person's head in those arenas, Katniss; you know that as well as we do. People might… say things that we don't want said. Besides, we don't know who's going to, well, make it out and who could get taken prisoner, when this all comes down. The fewer of us who know what's going on when we head in, the better."

"I- I'm not a rebel-"

_Click._

"Then we have no choice," Johanna says, holding the barrel of her handgun against the underside of my jaw.

"Wait," I say quickly. They look at me intently. I think for a moment: do I really want to do this?

_Yes,_ a little voice in the back of my head says. And not just because I've got a gun against my chin, either.

I take a deep breath and say, "What do you need me to do?"


	6. Chapter 6 Sleepless Nights

"**Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound." –**_**Marcus Brutus, Julius Caesar (same as before)**_

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

**Haymitch**

She seeks me out, just like I knew she would.

For a long, long time, we both just stand there on the roof, looking over the city in silence. It smells like it's going to rain, and it reminds me of home. That's one thing the Capitol can't get rid of: no matter how much they try, they can't stop it from raining.

Finally, she says, "Are you ready?"

"Ready to what?"

"Ready to die. If the worst happens, I mean."

It's a funny question, I guess, since I've been asking myself that for twenty-five years and I still haven't come up with an answer. "I don't know," I say finally, turning my head to look at her. "You?"

She shifts from one foot to the other, shrugs. I look back out over the city.

"Y'know," I say quietly, so the cameras can't hear, "I always wondered when we'd get to this spot."

"Which spot?"

"The one where we get caught and punished."

"It was going to happen eventually," she tells me.

"Yeah, but… I wouldn't have wanted you here with me," I say, looking out over the people in the streets, walking here and there.

"I made my own choice, Haymitch. I knew what I was getting myself into when I joined the cause."

"Did you?" I ask bitterly. "Did you really want all this? Did you want to die?"

"Of course not. But I knew it was a… distinct possibility."

I give a harsh, barking laugh. "Hell, Trinket, there's something I've been meaning to ask you for ten years: why do you talk like that? As if everything's some sorta noon tea."

She smiles sadly. "It's how I was raised, Haymitch. How everyone is, here."

There's another long silence, before I say, "Eff, listen to me." She looks over at me to show she's paying attention, but I can't meet her eyes. "People… when they go into that arena, a lot of them- us- change."

"Of course," she says, not understanding.

"No, you don't get it. We don't just change our way of thinking, or grow up, or whatever. We change into _someone else._ We're a completely different person than we were before we went in."

"Do you know anyone who isn't like that?" she asks, and I can tell by the flicker of hope in her voice that she means me.

Only, it's not me, and we both know that. "A few," I say with a shrug. "Seeder, Mags, even Chaff to a point…"

"But not you."

I swallow; shake my head. "Not me, Princess." I force myself to meet her eyes, which I suddenly realize are pale blue. I always thought they were darker. "I don't want that happening to you, okay?" I say gruffly. "You- you're the last thing I've known that's just _staid put._ My old man, he walked out on us; and then my ma and my brother and my girl, they…" I curl my hand into a fist, pushing down everything that's about to boil over again. It's shaking, but I'm not sure whether that's from anger or withdrawal. Probably both. "So- so I gotta get you out, see?"

"Haymitch-"

"One way or another, this is the last Games I'm ever gonna know. One way or another. And I'm not letting them take anything else, you got that?"

"Then I guess we're at odds, because I'm not letting you lose," she says simply.

I start to say something, but think better of it. We both look out over the city. Finally, she says, "I wonder how many people have just had the same conversation we did."

"Whadaya mean?"

She shrugs, crossing her arms against the cool air. "That couple from District 1. Maybe Annie and Finnick- they're good friends. Chaff and Seeder." She bites her lip and then says, in a very small voice, "I don't want to die. But I don't want to live, either. Is that crazy?"

"No. Or if it is, then I'm crazy, too."

"Or drunk."

I chuckle. "Or drunk." But we both know that, for once, I'm sober: except for that shot in the private sessions, I've been off my liquor for three days, and I'm _this_ close to breaking into another floor to get some. I'm holding out, though. Not just for the kids, either; I know there's not gonna be any in the arena, and I'd rather have these damn headaches and cravings now than later (I'd say anger too, but then again, I'm always pissed-off, so that's no different than usual).

"I guess we should get some sleep," she says finally. "If we can, I mean."

I grunt noncommittally, knowing I won't get any sleep tonight.

"Well… goodnight, Haymitch."

"Night, Sweetheart."

She walks back through the garden to the door. I turn back around as it closes, and I wonder just what's going through her head.

Despite her sometimes ditzy, materialistic way of thinking, she really is pretty bright- remembers everything she hears, that woman, and she never forgets a face. Can practically give you a biography on anyone in the Capitol. It's what makes- _made_ her such a terrific spy.

Obviously she's scared. But does she really know what landed her here? Does she blame me?

Absentmindedly, I reach down and pick up a rock off the ground. I throw it over the edge of the roof.

It bounces back off the force field and lands right in my hand. I chuckle bitterly as I catch it.

If payback's a bitch, then karma's a crazy old ex: it goes around telling everyone what you did wrong; then it stabs you in the back. And then it goes after your best friend, to boot.


	7. Chapter 7 Let the Games Begin

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

"**I am not gamesome: I do lack some part of the quick spirit that is in Antony. Marcus Brutus, Julius Caesar (same)**

**Katniss**

"Here we go."

I say nothing, even to Peeta's quiet whisper. The entire viewing room is dead silent as every mentor watches the screen in front, which is divided into twenty-four separate panels, each showing a tribute. Nobody even breathes.

As I watch, Portia pats Haymitch on the shoulder and gestures to the launch plate, which will be covered in a glass cylinder to take him into the arena. He says something to her (we can't hear what, since the microphones aren't turned on yet), and then turns. Suddenly, she stops him, and then slips something into his hand. A token, probably, since he didn't have one. Then, he steps onto the plate, and a glass cylinder slowly lowers down to cover him.

I turn my attention to Effie, who's in another launch room with Cinna. He seems to be giving her instructions, and then reaches up to pin something- her token- onto her shirt. She gives him a quick hug, and then steps onto her launch plate. A glass cylinder lowers to cover her, as well.

Every mentor in the room is holding their breath, waiting for the cylinders to rise. Only… they don't.

"What's going on?" I hear Johanna mutter to the other mentor in her district. She's frowning at their tributes- Peony and a man called Blight, and seems to be as at a loss as we all are.

Suddenly, there's a disturbance in one of the screens- Effie's. Three Peacekeepers burst into the room and attack Cinna. Two cuff him while a third hits him in the temple, wearing what must be studded gloves.

"Cinna!" I scream. Every head in the room turns to look at me, but I don't care. I'm halfway out of my seat before I remember there's nothing I can do. "Cinna!"

Effie's shouting just like I am, banging on the glass cylinder with a strength I didn't know she possessed. The Peacekeepers act like they can't even see her as they beat him, before dragging Cinna's limp body out of the room, bloodstains trailing behind.

A shaking hand is pressed to my mouth- my own, I realize- as the cylinders start to rise, Effie still screaming and banging on the glass. Then, she realizes what's going on, and quickly stands up. She seems to be getting ready to run.

I think Peeta's saying something to me, but I can't hear him. I'm still in shock. Then, he and someone else- the male mentor for 11, I think- pull me back down into my seat, which I know somewhere back in my mind I will thank them for later.

Then, the cameras switch to outside, the arena, and I hear Claudius Templesmith say those awful words"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin!"

**Effie**

My head is still in a fog from what I just saw happen. Why would they attack Cinna? It had to be the show last night. It had to be that. Will they kill him? I think I'm going to be sick…

_FOCUS!_ The last bit of my mind that's still working screams at me. Every ounce of rebel training that I've ever gone through forces me to look around at my surroundings, figure out where I am.

It's nothing like any arena I've ever seen before. The grass is neatly trimmed around my feet, the trees perfectly sculpted. I can hear burbling fountains nearby. It is, I believe, some sort of garden.

Looking straight ahead, I see that I'm right: the Cornucopia sits in the middle of a huge, Roman-style temple. The horn itself is carved out of pure, white marble, which sparkles in the light of the midday sun as it hits it. Extending down the white steps are the pickings from the cornucopia: food, water canteens, survival packs and, of course, weapons. Spears, bows, and- to my surprise and relief- even a few firearms. Apparently what I did in the private sessions has convinced the Gamemakers to put a few choice weapons in the mix.

"Thirty," the cool female voices chants out. "Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven-"

All the handguns are too close to the Cornucopia for me to reach without putting myself in a lot of danger, though. Should I go for them? Or should I run?

I look over to Haymitch and Chaff, hoping they can read the question in my eyes. Haymitch shakes his head no while Chaff nods yes. Well. That wasn't helpful at all.

"Ten- nine- eight- seven- six-"

I have to decide. I have to decide _now._

"Three- two- one!"

The gong rings out, and I'm off the plate before anyone else is, scrambling for anything I can get my hands on- a sackcloth backpack, a knife, a water bottle.

I can see the guns, and I want one- like hell do I want one. But the other tributes, they're off their plates, and I know I haven't got much time before anyone who wants a fight goes after me, the woman who scored a twelve but is obviously a weakling. Two terrific reasons to take me out. Two absolutely_ stunning_ reasons for me to get my butt out of here.

I turn tail and take off through the garden, dodging around sculpted bushes and fountains with little cherubs spouting water out of them.

It doesn't take long before I reach a wall, but this wall has a gate in it not to far away. I hurry over to it to see if it's locked, which thankfully it isn't. This obviously isn't the end of the arena.

I push the gate open and find myself facing a large, dense wood. _Fine,_ I think, though I have no experience surviving in the forest. Oh, how I envy Katniss' knowledge right now, but at the very least, I do know what will and what won't be edible- I spent an hour on the last day memorizing every poisonous and non-toxic plant known to mankind. Or at least, known to the director at the table.

I hear a loud shout from behind me, and my adrenaline spikes, moving my feet into the thick foliage.

I don't know how far or long I've gone before I stop to take a break. Though I know I'm only ten, twenty minutes into these games at the most, I take a little pride in the fact that I wasn't killed in the bloodbath, which is where the highest chances of death occur.

Suddenly, I hear a loud_ snap _behind me. I whirl around, knife pointing in the noise's direction.

"Whoa there, dahlin," Chaff says, putting his hands in the air with a laugh. "Easy, I'm not out to kill you."

I relax and lower the knife, but not too much. "Chaff," I say, breathing in relief. "You scared me. Have you seen Seeder or Haymitch?"

"Right here, Miss Trinket," Seeder says, stepping out from behind a tree with her ever-calming smile. There's a small, shallow cut on her arm that doesn't seem to be bleeding too bad, and Chaff has a bruise on his left cheekbone, but other than that, the two of them seem to be in good condition.

"Have either of you seen Haymitch?"

"I thought I saw him at the Cornucopia," Chaff replies.

I swallow. "Alive, or-"

"Alive. No idea if he still is."

I feel fear rising in my throat. Not even fifteen minutes into the games and I already might've broken my promise. I turn and start to go back towards the garden.

"Whoa, whoa, wait," Chaff says, taking hold of my shoulder. "Where you headed, dahlin?"

"I have to go back," I say, shrugging his hand off my shoulder.

"You can't go back," Seeder says. "There's still killing going on there."

"But Haymitch-"

"Is a smart man," she tells me. "Don't you worry about him, Miss Trinket. He'll be along."

So… we wait. And wait. And wait some more. With each passing second, I get more and more sure that Haymitch is dead, to the point where I start hyperventilating and Seeder has to tell me to take deep breaths.

"He's dead," I say, feeling like I'm about to cry. "He's dead, he's-"

"Who's dead?"

I whirl around, and see Haymitch standing there, a gun and knife in his right hand, a javelin in his left, and a backpack on his back. A long gash across his cheek is bleeding, but not too heavily.

"Haymitch!" I shriek, and run forward, hugging him. He stumbles back, surprised.

"Take it easy, Sweetheart," he grunts.

I pull away, my cheeks flushing a little with embarrassment. "Oh, yes, of course. Sorry."

"Good to see you alive and well, Abernathy," Chaff says with a laugh. "What you got there?"

"Couple of weapons." He hands me a gun and Seeder the spear, keeping the knife for himself. "Not sure what's in the backpack, though."

"Why'd you take so long?" I demand. "You wanted me to run; why didn't you do that yourself?" I'm somewhere between fury and relief at his story, because he's alive, but he put himself at incredible risk.

"Some nutjob went off his rocker and went for me the moment the gong rang. We got too close to the Cornucopia and he got a knife. That's how I got this." He gestures to his cut with the spear.

"Which one was he?" Chaff asks.

"Didn't get a good look at him. I knocked him out with the but of the spear and grabbed his knife and, and then I picked up the bag and gun and got the hell outta there."

"We should get moving," Seeder says, glancing around. "Put more distance between us and anyone left at the temple."

We do as she says and travel for the next few hours, taking an occasional break in between. I'm glad that Cinna had me wear these running sneakers; this would be awful to do in anything else, and heels would be absolutely horrid.

_Cinna…_ My stomach turns as I remember them beating him. Is he alright? Oh my, I hope they didn't k-

_Stop that right there,_ I tell myself sternly. I can't worry about Cinna right now; I have to worry about myself. As selfish as that may sound, it's the truth.

Finally, when the sun is starting to fall, we decide to call a halt and take inventory of what we have. "What do we have for food?" Haymitch asks.

I designate myself as 'treasurer' of the little group, and mentally make a list as I tell him"Seven apples, one loaf of bread, two empty water bottles, and an orange. The bread is in a bag, which means it's treated with preservatives and will last as long as we need it to, so long as it's in the bag. The fruit will go bad quickly."

"Terrain survival?"

"Two blankets, both wool. One packet of matches. Piece of linen."

"Weapons?"

"One javelin, two knives, and a gun: semi-automatic with attached magazine."

Chaff whistles. "Not bad. That's one for each of us." He looks over at Haymitch. "What do you say we take the knives?"

"Fine by me." He looks over at Seeder and I, and then tosses us the blankets. "Here. You two take these."

I catch mine and say, "Thank you. That was very… chivalrous of you."

He rolls his eyes. "Sure thing, sweetheart."

"Well, I'll be damned," Chaff says suddenly.

"What's that?" Seeder asks.

"All these weapons are long-distance."

"What do you mean?" I say, surprised.

"These are throwing knives. And you have a firearm, and Seeder has a spear. I saw a bow or two at the Cornucopia."

"So?" I don't understand where this is going.

"So it means we won't be fighting each other," Haymitch says darkly. "Hurry, everyone get some wood."

I do as he says, surprised. "Why?" I ask, picking up a fallen branch.

"Because he takes the branch and breaks it in half with his foot. "Because I get the feeling that the Gamemakers have given us more to worry about than the humans in this arena."

**HG**

"So, Claudius, tell me how the mutts in this arena differ from all the others?" Caesar Flickerman asks, the screen behind them showing a shot of the now-deserted Cornucopia.

"Well, you see, Caesar, in the previous years a computer chip has been implanted in specially bred hybrids," Claudius answers conversationally. "This would give them artificial, almost humanoid intelligence, allowing them to be much deadlier, as seen in the hybrids used in the 74th." A quick shot of the mutts attacking Cato appears onscreen, before going back to the current games. "However, in these Games, the hybrids have a different kind of chip installed in their brains. This highly specialized computer chip sends signals into the brain, causing the animal to believe it's in continuous pain and making it much more vicious. Also, every mutt has been starved to the point of near insanity, and the only sizeable prey in the arena are, of course, the humans."

"So I hear there will be a method to the releasing this year?" Caesar asks.

"You've heard correctly. We're starting out with a total of ten mutts in the arena. For every tribute killed from here on out, two more mutts will be released in the general area of the death."

"Thank you, Claudius, and my greatest compliments to our wonderful laboratory workers." He gives a short wave to the camera, knowing the entire lab is watching at this point. "Let's go back to the games, shall we? It seems we have a small alliance going between the 11 and 12 tributes, and- hang on, what's this?"

"What's what?" Claudius asks, confused.

Caesar doesn't answer him, but instead, says, "Cameramen, could you please focus in on Ms. Trinket's token?" There's a pause, and then the people operating the Game cameras zoom in on the pin. There's a collective gasp from the audience when they recognize the pin (or at least, a replica of it) that dominated the cameras the year before:

A golden mockingjay with an arrow in its mouth.


	8. Chapter 8 Monsters in our Midst

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

"**I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman." – Marcus Brutus, **_**Julius Caesar **_**(same).**

**Effie**

We sit around the fire, waiting for the anthem to come on. We've each been doled out half an apple for dinner- Haymitch says we need to ration the food, especially the bread.

I break my half into two more halves (or fourths, I guess), and spear one of them on a stick, holding it over the fire.

"Why're you doing that?" Chaff asks, watching me.

I shrug. "It feels like a real dinner if it's warm."

Seeder chuckles. "I tell you, Miss Trinket, you're going to have an interesting time with the lack of food."

I frown, a little offended, and then concede that she's right. Every capitol person in these games is going to feel the starvation more than those from the districts, including me.

I'm broken out of my thoughts by the anthem. The faces of the dead tributes begin to appear in the sky.

It's a lesser number than usual for the Blood Bath, since most of us got out of there as fast as we could and didn't go looking for a fight, but there are still a few. Both tributes from 3 (Circuit and Bulb) are dead, which means all from 1 and 2 survived. I'm a little grateful for that; I didn't want the couple to die. Obviously they will have to, eventually, but I don't let myself think about that right now.

Neither from 4 or 5, one from 6, neither from 7, both from 8, and one from 9. That's six tributes total, leaving eighteen of us. As the anthem shuts off, I try to remember who's left: the couple from 1; Diamond and Mason from 2; Annie and Finnick from 4; whoever they are from 5 and the last from 6- I can't recall their names-; Peony and her partner, Blight; the last from 9; both from 10, including an escort whose name I can't remember right now; and then the four of us.

Everything is quiet around us, except for the chirruping of the crickets and the fire. Then, I hear it: a long, spine-tingling howl.

I shiver and draw closer to the fire. Haymitch notices this and says, "Don't you worry, Sweetheart. I've been mentoring these games for years, and if there's one thing mutts can't stand, it's fire."

"Don't you think the fire might draw someone here?" I ask.

"Let me put it this way," he says, taking a few small sticks from the large pile we gathered earlier and adding them to the fire. "No one who's smart enough to build their own fire is gonna leave it. If they haven't already built one, you can bet they'll be getting on that pretty quick. And if they _do_ decide to leave their little safety bubble and come after us… well, I'll give my own knife to the man who manages to get here through the mutts."

"What about during the day?"

"Mutts don't usually hunt by day," Chaff says. "What happened last year, with your tributes and Cato, that was a special situation. They're mostly nocturnal."

I decide not to comment on the word _mostly._

Haymitch is right, though; as night descends, more and more little trails of smoke begin to appear in the sky. Nobody heads after them. Nobody wants to risk going out into the dark of the surrounding woods.

Speaking of Haymitch, I notice, as I'm about to eat my last quarter of the apple that he's trying very hard not to stare at it. I know what withdrawal's doing to him, and even though he's done his best not to show it, I know his headaches have gotten worse with the beginnings of dehydration. I haven't seen any water since I left the garden, and I'm cursing myself for not filling the water bottle when I had the chance.

"Here," I say, handing it to him. He looks at it, surprised.

"Don't be an idiot, Trinket. I'm fine."

"You're not fine, and you know it. Go on; I'm not real hungry anyway."

"That's a lie."

I shrug. "Okay, so I'm anorexic. There, now you can eat it."

"You're not anorexic, and-"

"Haymitch." He shuts up as I employ every ounce of a no-nonsense attitude that I have. "Either you're going to eat this, or I'm going to throw it in the fire, don't you think I won't!"

I know this will get to him, and I'm right: as a citizen of District 12 and a former resident of the Seam, he's been practically trained to never waste food. I hate to take advantage of that fact, but I will when I have to.

Reluctantly, he takes the quarter-apple and eats it as slowly as he can manage. Still, it's gone in seconds, and I'm a little remorseful when he's done. I _am_ hungry, despite what I said, but that's hardly the point. I will show them that even a Capitol girl can deal with starvation if she has to.

"So," I say, to try and relieve the awkward silence around us. "What do you three think of the arena?"

Haymitch swallows, and then says, "I think they have one helluva team, to put together that garden so fast."

"What do you mean?"

"No offense, dahlin," Chaff answers, "But this is _your_ arena. Or that garden is, anyway."

"I think they must've been using this arena, and then modified it after the parade," Seeder adds. "I suppose you could do it in a few days, if you had enough people."

"That temple or whatever around the cornucopia, that was because of us," Haymitch tells me. "Like I said, either they hate us or love cherry wine."

Chaff chuckles. "I don' even wanna know, Abernathy."

"Haymitch," I say suddenly, "You know that man you knocked out at the Cornucopia?"

"What about 'im?"

"Was he one of the… dead?" I swallow, telling myself that I have seen that sky filled with many a child I knew personally and I will _not_ lose my grip now.

He frowns, thinking. "Y'know, I don't think he was. He musta woken up before anyone or any_thing_ could get at him."

"Why do you think he went after you?"

"Probably 'cause of the twelve."

BOOM!

We all stop talking and look around. I count the faces- one, two, three, and my own. Of course it's none of us, but I just want to check. Just in case. "Was that a cannon?" I ask in a whisper.

"I think so. But it sounded strange," Haymitch says with a confused frown.

"Maybe it was a gunshot?" I suggest. "It sounded very close."

"No, that was definitely a cannon," Seeder answers.

"We should check it out," Chaff says. "Haymich, can you set up two torches? We'll need 'em to ward off a mutt if we come across it."

As Haymitch quickly takes two long branches and tears some material from the linen, I try to figure out what's going on. They've just lit the makeshift torches and are about to leave when it hits me. "Hang on," I say.

They look back, surprised. "What is it now, Sweetheart?" Haymitch asks, annoyed. "You scared of the dark? The fire's right here, you know."

I ignore this. "We've all been watching these games for years. You three have been in them. Maybe it's different when it's real life versus onscreen, but do any of you remember the cannons having a _location?_ As in, close or near?"

They look around at each other. "Now that you mention it," Chaff says with a frown, "I don't think so."

"But that was a cannon, I'm sure of it," Seeder says, looking just as confused.

"Hold on," Haymitch says. He closes his eyes, thinking out loud. "I don't know why they'd tell you where the tribute died, unless-"

"They were trying to lure us out," we both say at the same time.

"But they've never done that before," Chaff says. "Why do it now? If there's a tribute nearby looking for a fight, they'll find us eventually, anyway."

"Unless it wasn't a tribute that killed them," Haymitch says grimly. He tosses his torch back in the fire, and Chaff does the same as it dawns on him.

We all huddle a little closer around the fire. Though I didn't think it possible, I eventually lay down on the ground, using the blanket as a pillow since it's warm by the fire, and slowly, slowly drift off into a dreamless sleep…

…A cracking sound awakes me, and before I'm fully awake I'm scrambling for my gun. Holding it in my hand, I scan the area in front of me. Just the others. Nobody else.

"Must've been the fire," I murmur to myself.

Then, I hear the growl.

My head whips around, and I find myself staring into the eyes of the beast.

My breath hitches in my throat. It looks like something between a wolf and a wild tiger, times twenty. Its glowing yellow eyes stay just out of the range of the fire, but it's looking for the perfect moment, waiting for one of us to step out of the flickering light and become mutt food.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of screaming, and an instant later, I realize it's me. I scramble back towards the fire as the others shoot up from sleep, grabbing at their weapons, looking for the attacker.

Haymitch realizes what's going on first. "SHOOT IT!" he bellows at me. "SHOOT IT!"

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Blood spurts from the mutt's head as it collapses to the ground.

There's a moment of silence, before I whisper, "Is it… dead?"

Seeder slowly rises to her feet, spear in hand. She creeps forward towards the mutt, and suddenly, I get a glimpse of the young woman she must've been fifty years ago in the first Quell, of which she was the victor.

The moment she's just barely close enough, she plunges the spear down into its neck.

More blood gushes out, but the animal doesn't move. She yanks the spear out and gives it a kick. "It's dead," she proclaims with a nod.

I let out a shaky breath. The gun clatters from my hand onto the ground.

"Good aim, Princess," Haymitch grunts, and I smile the tiniest bit under his praise. My heart is still beating a thousand miles an hour, though.

Slowly, the others manage to fall back asleep, but not me. I stay up the rest of the night, watching, waiting, knowing I won't be able to sleep so soundly perhaps ever again.

They will not catch me off guard next time. They tried to put me at a disadvantage, when they hurt Cinna. I owe it to him to stay alive, at least until the end.

_And what about when you get to the end?_ a little voice in the back of my head asks. _What if it's just you and him? What if you have to choose what's best for everyone?_

I force the thought from my mind. _Not yet,_ I say firmly. _Not yet._

**Katniss**

"Well, would you look at that?" Caesar says, laughing. "What do you think, Claudius? I reckon that's how she got that twelve!"

Claudius laughs, too. "Is this the same Effie that talked to me for three hours about the shades of pink? I don't believe it."

"Looks like we've got a fighter here! Another lady with a dead-on aim. I bet you Katniss Everdeen is proud of her tribute tonight!"

I smile a little despite myself. Yes, I am proud; despite Effie's freak-out when she saw the mutt, her shooting was near perfect.

"Never thought you and Effie had something in common, huh?" Peeta says, elbowing me.

Since the mentors are only required to watch the first six hours in the viewing room, Peeta and I are now sitting in our living room in the penthouse. "How many mutts are in the arena?" I ask him.

"Twelve- no, eleven now that she's shot that one."

The cameras turn back from Caesar and Claudius to the Games. It does a quick scan of the seventeen remaining tributes- the couple from District 1, which are together at their fire; Mason; Diamond; Annie and Finnick (also in an alliance); the District 5 tributes (both on their own); the last from 6; Peony; Blight; the escort from 10; the male tribute from 10; and the four, which the camera stays on for an extra second before a slide appears onscreen, showing the name, age, and picture of the dead tribute.

It's the male from 9: Flax, age thirty-three. The camera flashes back to the group of four, which is apparently the most interesting tonight.

The others seem to be drifting off, but Effie's still awake, her eyes flicking back and forth, ceaselessly scanning the area.

"Looks like our little lady is a bit shook up," Claudius comments.

"Oh, she'll be alright," Caesar dismisses. "Let's go back to full-screen, shall we?"

The two men disappear, and the camera focuses right on Effie, who's clutching at her gun like a kid does his safety blanket. Then, she frowns, and cocks her head as if she can hear something.

She turns to the point where she's staring right at the camera. She frowns and, just loud enough for the camera to hear, murmurs, "If only I had a bullet to spare."

I snort, biting back a laugh. Peeta grins. "Effie."

"Effie," I agree.


	9. Chapter 9 The Pinch

Chapter 9

"**We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures." –Marcus Brutus, Julius Caesar (same)**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, Oceans Eleven, or Wikipedia. I make no money off of this.

**Haymitch**

I see her blink once, twice, and then shake herself awake again, before repeating the pattern.

She's been up all night. I know she has. She thinks I'm still asleep, she thinks she can fool me when I 'wake up,' but if there's one thing I know about it's a restless night.

The sunlight filters down through the trees on our little girl scout troop here, the fire reduced to coals that, to the untrained (Capitol) eye, would seem normal. But I know better. Those coals aren't cool enough yet for a whole night. Someone obviously added wood while we were asleep. Effie, of course.

She doesn't belong here, anyone can see that. Even without all her makeup and garish outfits, you can tell by her pale skin, her soft hands, and her shiny blonde hair that's only just beginning to knot and come out of its simple braid that she's a Capitol-raised princess. She looks out of place in the trees and dirt and simple living conditions. She was never meant to be a tribute.

Some might say she was never meant to be a rebel, either, but they don't know her like me. Yeah, she's a Capitol princess, but she's smart and a damn good actor. All that outer fluff- the dresses, the manners the petty conversations- while it was probably part of her nature to begin with, she used every last ounce of it to make sure nobody suspected her. It's why she was a great escort: when there was a story to be played- a boy a few years ago who was the only breadwinner in his house, or, last year, the Star-Crossed Lovers- she delivered it well, and when there wasn't… She always knew how to comfort the tributes, when they knew as well as she that they were gonna die. That's something I could never do. And she did it all without touching a drop.

Not only that, she has a real hate for her job. When she first became an escort, she wasn't like that- she loved all the excitement and drama. But see, she made a mistake: she got too close to our tributes. Both of 'em were twelve- Lilac and Hart. She really loved them kids. Doted on them, like they were her own.

Both died in the bloodbath.

That woke her up to everything. That was when she started to hate her job. Not in front of the cameras or the tributes, obviously, but when she was sure she wasn't being taped, she could say things about the Hunger Games that I knew could get her executed in a half-second. And every year, on the first day of the games, she wears- _wore_ this little ring. A pale purple heart. The exact shade of a lilac bush.

I smirk a little sadly at the memory, and then that smirk fades. Yeah, she hated the Games. And now look where we are.

Irony has never really liked me.

Said escort glances over at me, sees that I'm awake. "Oh, you're-" she yawns. "You're up."

"Yeah. You shoulda asked one of us to take second shift, Eff."

"I'm fine," she says dismissively.

That's a lie, and we both know it, but I let it slide. "A'right, but you'd better keep up, Sweetheart. We're not gonna wait for you when we head out."

"Fine," she answers simply, the same way she used to whenever there was a change in schedule. Like she knows she can handle it, thank you very much.

I'll tell ya one thing, you gotta admire courage like that: _Yes, I know absolutely nothing about terrain survival and I've likely never slept on anything this hard or walked this far in my life, but don't you worry, I can do it. Oh, why? Because I just will, that's why._

Chaff and Seeder are up soon, and we make a short meal out of another half an apple each. This time, I- what the hell was that word again? Oh, yeah, scrupulous- I _scrupulously _avoid looking at anyone's food for my own. This is the Hunger Games, and charity is not an option for any of us.

We pack up camp and, just for good measure, put out the fire. No smoke trails to follow, no way to find where we are or where we've been.

**Katniss**

"So what's the plan?"

Beetee doesn't even look up at me as he continues sketching out something. A former victor of District 3, he's apparently the brains behind this whole operation, which is to end the Games a little earlier than expected and get the rebel tributes that are still loyal out.

"Around the arena, there is a force field," he says. "Only two have ever gotten to it before- one being Haymitch, the other long-dead."

"Okay," I say, memorizing this all in my mind.

"This force field can only be destroyed by a large electrical pulse, such as that supplied by lightning. However, we obviously can't make it lightning in the arena, so we need to send in something else."

"What sort of 'something else?'" I ask.

Beetee adds another line to the drawing. "A pinch."

I blink. "Huh?"

*"A pinch is a filament that can conduct electricity, which has been compressed by magnetic forces. This is what happens in lightning- lightning itself is actually electrically charged plasma, a naturally occurring pinch. Artificial pinches can be made in a lab, which we have in District 3. The one we're going to use is a Z-pinch."

"So what do you need me for?"

He flips to another page and starts writing out something in hastily scrawled words. "We need you to help our men on the inside- namely Finnick and Annie. Finnick has instructions on how to operate the pinch inside his token- you'll notice he's wearing a mockingjay pin, as well."

I nod. I have noticed- many people in the arena are wearing my pin. I don't know why, and I don't think anyone who does is going to tell me.

"Inside one of the wings, on the back, is a little flap. Inside that is a folded up strip of paper with the instructions. So long as he follows them, he can operate the z-pinch. If he dies, Annie takes them and tries to find someone else with a pin. That's how you know who's with us.

"What we need _you_ to do is to get your tributes to form an alliance with Finnick and Annie. Other trusted mentors are doing the same. When the time is right, we'll sneak the pinch into the sponsor-gift area and send it in. We'll only have a small window of opportunity for them to get it running and to blast out the arena's force field. From there, we'll come in with some rogue hovercrafts and get whoever we can out before Snow's men come in. After that, we'll have to leave whoever's left."

"Have you briefed her?" Johanna asks, coming up. "Good. Then let's get started."

**HG**

"Peeta, we need to get them some food."

He looks up at me from his place on the couch, surprised. "Why? They have the bread and the apples."

"Those will go bad in a few days, even the bread. There aren't a lot of edible berry bushes around, and Effie can't waste a bullet on hunting. They're too hard to get out of a carcass." The last part's true, but the lack of berries is a total and utter lie. I'm just counting on the fact that Peeta doesn't know the difference between poisonous berries and good ones. "Besides, the earlier we get them gifts, the cheaper they'll be and the more money we'll be able to use later, when things get expensive."

This reasoning works with him, and we head to the gaming center to work up some sponsors.

"They're doing quite well, aren't they?" I say to a businessman with blue hair. "The only problem is, their food will go bad soon, and we don't want them to starve."

To another, this a portly lady with pink skin, "Yes, the alliance seems to be working. They're such a close-knit group. You know, my mother always used to say that mealtimes were what drew people together."

"I think they could do quite well- I'd bet on them if I could, ha-ha. But then again, all my money would be going into sponsoring them."

"Not to brag, but I think we really have some good tributes this year. If only they had more food between the four of them…"

And then, of course, there are the wanna-be rebels, who are eager to sponsor our four. They have to be played, as well, only in much quieter tones.

"I never knew Effie had it in her, either… but I guess there's a hero in each of us, right."

"If we can just get one of them through these Games, who knows what could happen?"

"Well, we all know that the people at the top want them to die off as quickly as possible- dehydration, bad conditions, starvation, that sort of thing."

For his part, Peeta does get quite a few sponsors off of his good charm, without even knowing about the rebel plan. Despite my protests, Beetee had eventually elected to keep it from him- "The less people that know about it," he said, "The better."

Once I have enough sponsors, I head to the gift room. It's like a little supermarket in there, only with a weapons section in the back.

I wander around for a bit, trying to figure out what to send. Something to do with District 4, obviously. But what?

Then, I remember what I said to Peeta earlier. _Those will go bad in a few days, even the bread._ Nobody would pay any attention to the type of bread I sent, so long as it was with other food.

I smile a little to myself and head over to the food ailes.

***A/N: Full credit to the movie Oceans Eleven for giving me the idea (which I do not own) and Wikipedia for supplying the information on exactly what a pinch is.**


End file.
